


Seeing Red

by leiascully



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-02-05
Updated: 2006-02-05
Packaged: 2017-10-03 07:21:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Timeline: S3<br/>A/N:  Written for a Donna/Amy challenge.  The prompt was "trichotillomania".<br/>Disclaimer: <i>The West Wing</i> and all related characters are property of Aaron Sorkin, Thomas Schlamme, and NBC. No profit is made from this work and no infringement is intended.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seeing Red

When you call for him, I write the messages in red. Red for urgency. Red for passion. I don't know if he notices.

There seems to be a lot that he doesn't notice. That doesn't stop him from dialing you before he talks to anyone else.

You breeze in later wearing a red silk shirt that would have me surviving on ramen noodles and Josh's fries for a month if I wanted to be able to pay for it. Red lipstick to match, the expensive kind that won't smudge off onto Josh's face. He'll still be flushed when the door opens. I move everything back half an hour.

Red used to be my favorite color. In college I dyed my hair red for Doctor Freeride. I can't even bother to recall his real name these days, so saturated am I with Josh's opinions. I can't live in his world and not be immersed in him. By proxy I am immersed in you. I don't think I could dye my hair now; blond strands are inconspicuous against the stacks of papers. When the door to his office closes behind you I twirl a lock around my fingers until the strands snap. Trichotillomania, it's called. The compulsion to pull out one's own hair. Somedays it's the compulsion to pull out your hair. I don't know what that's called. Jealousy, maybe.

But I am there for him when you are not. At three in the morning when he shows up smashed to complain about you, I am there, all comfort and tired blue eyes. After a few more beers, I see you the way he does: a bright splash in a black and white world. I wonder what it would be like to kiss your red lips, if your vibrancy would rub off.

If I wore red, would it make me look more pale? I fear I already pale in comparison. He didn't look through me when I wore a crimson dress, but still he treats me as an appendage. I want him to look at me the way he looks at you. I want you to look at me the way he looks at you.

I want to dye my hair and blaze like a flame for him.

I want to be you. Let me unbutton you, explore the girl under the scarlet armor. Let me trace your contours so that I will know how to shape myself to catch his eye. I've got years to wait around, but from the way his face changes when I become just Donna instead of Donnamyrighthand, all I need is a hook. You give me the answer.

A few dollars a month, I am saving up for a scarlet shirt for the last day of the Bartlet administration. Day by day I prove to him that he needs me.

I take your messages in red, never knowing when off-and-on is on or off.


End file.
